


Presidential Temptation

by Cinnamon18



Category: Donald Trump - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8946913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamon18/pseuds/Cinnamon18
Summary: “A shock ran through Donald, like the sort of shock you get when a climate change denier is placed at the head of the EPA, but good, and tingly.He had felt this feeling only once before. It was when he’d first met Pence.”Donald thought he knew what love was until one day, he didn't anymore. Tired of his old relationship with Mike, Donald finds himself falling for a mysterious stranger he meets in a russian cafe. But unbeknownst to Donald, this stranger has a dark and mysterious past. Will Donald be able to save his relationship with Mike? Will this new man repair Donald’s fractured heart? Or will his dark history cost Donald and everyone he loves their lives?





	1. Vice-presidential affair

Donald leaned back in his diamond encrusted arm chair, and breathed a sigh. The negotiations over the mutual defense treaty with Russia were winding down; things were going well. The president had originally hoped for a full alliance, but the Russian elite were nervous after the bombing of Iran. Oh well. America had to maintain its tough and manly reputation, and if indiscriminate bombing of noncombatants was what it took, so be it.

“Hey, Donald.” A familiar yet tantalizing voice broke through Donald’s tired thoughts. “Or, should I say, Supreme Chancellor Donald.” Mike leaned over the back of donald’s chair, and wrapped his arms around the chancellor's broad shoulders.

“Pence, join me,” said Donald, patting his leg. The shorter man sat on his chancellor's lap, leaning back into Donald’s familiar shape. Mike sighed happily as defined abs pressed into his back. He gazed up into Donald’s cold, blue eyes, and there was no other name for what passed between them: love.

“Donald. We’ve been together for a while now. Russia and America are quickly being united. We gave North Korea the nukes, we gave Iran the nukes, albeit not unexploded like they requested. The Chinese military is on the retreat, Mexicans are disappearing more and more quickly every day, and we’ve nearly ended climate change monitoring! We've made a lot of progress over the last four months! You need to slow down, take it easy, Donald. Let me help you relax.”

Donald trailed his fingers lightly across Pence’s slight chest, finally coming to test at the hem of his lover’s shirt. “Maybe it would be good to relax for the night. Take my mind off of things.” Trump said. He stood up, carrying Mike to their shared gem-encrusted bed. Trump had to duck under their gold leaf doorway; it was built for a man of much smaller proportions. Donald was big. Huge, even. There was a reason his lovers referred to him as “The Big-D.” Donald gently lowered his beloved onto their 20K thread count sheets, hand made by recently re-legalized child laborers. He laid down next to Pence and stared up at the ceiling, waiting for the mural of infants he saved from cruel womb-ripping to fill him with virulent passion as it always did.

But something was off. As Donald though about the handsome man lying next to him, he felt nothing. His mighty man noodle, usually capable of slaying a hundred men in a single night, hung limp and immobile. He tried to imagine Pence's gasping breaths against his cheek, but still his meat locomotive refused to leave the station.

“Donald, darling, is something wrong?” Asked Mike, concerned with Donald’s inaction. He knew well his lover’s ordinarily voracious appetite for crossing swords.

“I'm fine,” said Donald, “I think I'm just getting old. That last communion with the elder gods really took it out of me.”

“Just try to relax, Don-don. Let me handle things for tonight,” said Pence, cupping his beloved’s papery cheek. Pence kissed Donald lightly before moving to straddle the squash’s pump gourd. Belt buckles clicked, buttons slipped, cloth rustled, and the two presidential lovers found themselves completely undressed. Mike sucked in breath, mentally preparing himself for the plunge. Donald’s baloney pony was more of a chrysdale than a pony, but Mike would do, or take, anything for his Donald.

Mike took the full force of D-man’s Calvary change. The media called Trump a liar, but he certainly hadn't lied to Rubio on that debate stage a year ago. They rocked back and forth, and the bounce house ride neared its conclusion as Mike’s guttural utterances and Donald’s sniffles neared their climax. Finally, Donald exploded, channeling a torrent of love juice into Mike.

Mike collapsed, exhausted by their deep junction substation reroute. But as he gazed up across the vast fleshy expanse that was his chancellor’s chest, his blood ran colder than the rapidly retreating Antarctic ice sheets: his lover was gazing off into the distance. Distracted. Apathetic.

“Donald! My love! What’s wrong? Are you unwell?” Pence’s voice rose an octave.

A single tear rolled down Donald's face, splattering on the floor like a participant in the new prison population reduction program dubbed “off the roof”. And that night, Donald realized a truth that would forever change his life: Mike Pence, his lover of over two years, could no longer fulfill him.


	2. Trump’s Temptation

The clouds broke over the grey city, letting a trickle of sunlight stream through the cafe window. Trump sat in one of the window seats, staring out at the dreary city. It was day fourteen of the negotiations over how to split the recently conquered African continent, and progress was steady, if slow. 

The main point of contention had been ownership mineral rich areas of central Africa, and in which nation the members of the rebel group Sanders’ Nation Liberators would be executed. The Russian Federation wanted a quick public execution to dissuade future revolt, but the Holy American Empire favored a long-term electroshock brainwashing program that would show the resistors the light of God, and teach them to love his direct mouthpiece, Supreme Chancellor Trump.

Donald snapped out of his mental meander. He came here to relax, not think about work! He glanced around the cafe, noting for the first time how sparsely populated the space was. Donald shook his head; most people didn't have the means to eat at a nice place like this. If only they worked harder, like he did! Most people these days were so lazy they’d rather eat dirt and starve than work a real job. Bah! As far as he was concerned, if you were too lazy to work you were doing society a favor by removing yourself from the gene pool.

As though sensing his mental tirade against the undeserving, one of the cafe’s occupants looked up and met Trump’s eyes. A shock ran through Donald, like the sort of shock you get when a climate change denier is placed at the head of the EPA, but good, and tingly.

He had felt this feeling only once before. It was when he’d first met Pence.

But now, all the vibrancy and passion had left his relationship with Mike, and Donald needed someone new to satisfy his presidential desires. This strange man, with plaid grub-like flesh and shining insectoid eyes promised him everything his relationship with Pence was devoid of.

Donald stood up, walking over to the stranger.

From the moment he laid eyes on Donald in that cafe, Putin knew he was going to abolish the man’s private property and storm his fortress as only a Bolshevik knew how. The man’s coarse yellow hair, like sodden hay left out to dry. His oily, orange completion, which seemed to leave a cheeto dust residue on everything he touched. His bleached teeth, straighter and whiter than the Holy American Empire’s economic elite. He would wage class warfare on this man’s body, and press him into the service of the proletariat.

Trump felt a hand in his sunless region, mercilessly taking hold of his Oompa Loompas.

A voice whispered in his ear, thick with seduction and Russianness. “Chancellor Trump, when you’re president for life, you can do it, you can do anything. You can grab ‘em by the Oompa Loompas. My Donald, let us unite our bodies like the workers of the world.”

Donald could feel his freedom tool straining bigly against his pants. “W-w-what, who are you?” Donald sniffed.

“I am Russian president-for-life, Vladimir Putin!” the corpse-like man shouted, security detail erupting into an ominous Gregorian chant, “and I will show you a bliss second only to post-scarcity automated socialist utopia!” Froth formed at the corners of Vladmir’s mouth as he released a spine tingling noise somewhere between a scream and a howl. A full half a minute later Vladimir’s vocalization finally subsided, and his guards’ chant with it. It was the most beautiful thing Donald had ever seen.

“Vladimir. These last months, my relationship has been devoid of flavor and passion. My previous lover, Pence, can no longer fulfil my desires. You alone, you chiseled bolshevik beefcake, can satisfy me.”

Donald knew it was wrong to bang a bolshevik, screw a socialist, copulate with a communist, but he simply couldn’t restrain himself. Being a red didn’t really matter when you were a young and beautiful piece of ass. He would never dream of fitting square pegs into round holes with his daughter, but this man, Putin, was a different matter entirely. Only a man who the power and vision to illegalize memes could capture his soul so completely.

“Come, my Daddy-D, let us ride in my human-drawn carriage to the presidential palace. There, I will worship your body as though it were the manifesto itself.”

“Prepare yourself Vladdy poo-poo. You’ll find the teat of the proletariat isn’t all I know how to suckle.”

That night, the presidential servants shuddered in sympathy. They knew first hand only the most heinous torture could elicit from an inmate the screams they heard emanating from Putin’s presidential torture chamber that night.


	3. Executive discovery

It was a gritty, cold, July evening. Ever since the Holy American Empire’s completely unavoidable nuclear strikes on Europe, the world had been suspended in a frigid winter. The supreme chancellor had ordered CFCs released in an attempt to warm the globe, but to no avail.

“Take that, climate change scientists,” he muttered, referencing the long-extinct group of godless heathens.

Donald walked back inside the recently refinished and renamed Gold House, appreciating his yellowed reflection in the polished walls. “It really brings out my hair,” he said to himself.

“And your luscious skin tone,” rasped a voice from his bed. Donald looked at Pence with concern. After the nukes went off, Mike’s condition deteriorated rapidly. The chemotherapy had left him bald and weak, stealing from him the small amount of vitality that the advancing years hadn’t.

Pence sat up, coughing up a few drops of blood. Donald licked his lips hungrily, but managed to hold himself back. He had received his weekly communion of flesh and blood at the Mirthful Messiahs’ mass, but still he thirsted for more.

“Pence, my darling, go back to sleep! You’ve been most unwell as of late!” said Donald.

“Donald,” Pence whispered, tears in his voice, “you never call me Mike anymore.”

Trump looked at Pence’s gently swelling chest, listened to the soft beeping of his ventilator, but couldn't meet Mike’s eyes.

“Go back to sleep, dear. The medicine is clouding your mind.” Donald couldn't admit the other reason he needed Pence to sleep. He ran out of the room, pretending he couldn't hear Mike’s receding sobs.

\--------------------

“Donald,” said a sultry voice, laden thick with the will of the people, “how kind of you to finally join me.” The Russian president was stretched out across their shared love couch in the holy sex dungeon.

“I do apologize, dearest Vladdy Daddy, the democrat rebels have been destroying food reserves. I’ve been all over the empire speaking against their violence, and reminding people that we are one as a nation,” said Donald.

Putin chucked to himself communistically. Everyone knew that the Holy American Empire’s neural implant program kept its citizens from even thinking the word “democrat”. At least, those without implants knew, Putin chuckled again.

“Come, d-boy, enough talk of work. It's time to become my wage slave,” said Vladimir, executing his signature seductive double wink. Donald shuddered in anticipation; Putin knew how to make the stub area reach maximum potential.

The two lovers got right down to business, chewing at each other's clothes like wild animals trying to gnaw off limbs caught in bear traps. After several minutes of concentrated effort, they succeed in reducing their brown suit jackets to tatters. Already wet and slimy with each other's saliva, they rubbed against each other sensually, little soldiers engaging in hand to hand combat. Their limp lasagna noodles were baked solid into burnt fruit leather.

Vladimir crawled on top of his lover like a Russian freedom freedom fighter mounting the corpses of the bourgeois, and tried Donald's wrists to the diamond posts in the corners of their bed. He then slipped a My Little Pony blindfold over Trump’s eyes, lovingly licking each covered eyeball.

Putin trailed his hands down Donald’s voluptuous chest, playing with his sensitive cluster controllers. Down south, Donald’s erection stood as tall and proud as the wall he built on the Mexican border. Vladimir, never hesitating to conquer what he desired, slammed himself onto Donald’s procreation rapier, burying it up to its hilt. Donald was a huge man who fenced bigly, but the vivacious Putin was capable of taking any challenge. They flopped violently against each other like two fish on the deck of a ship, cold and slimy. Trump’s sniffles got louder and louder until...

Bang!

The sniffles weren't just Donald’s! A tearful Mike shouldered open the door, ventilator trailing behind him.

“You! I knew it! You’ve been cheating on me with Putin!” screamed Pence, tears streaming down his face.

“Pence, babe, i’m sorry!” said Donald, still bound and blindfolded, “when I was in Russia... Well, as the youth say, my network adapter was set to promiscuous mode, and there was a cafe, and... well...” Donald trailed off awkwardly, trying to shrug with his hands tied and child pike still buried deep inside inside his slavic slaveowner.

“P-p-pence, mikey, mi-mi, let me make it up to you. Why don't you join us for some fun?” said Donald, wincing at his rapidly deflating undifferentiated twisty balloon. Mike hesitated, torn, but felt the instrument of God stirring at the sight of the alabaster maestro soulfully playing his lover’s double contrabass clarinet. As though possessed by the Holy Spirit, Mike drifted toward the bed, ventilator clunking noisily behind.

Vladimir elected to untie his yammy lover. This situation was new and unfamiliar; it wouldn't do to rush in blindly. Mike sat down on the bed, finding an apologetic Donald eager to tend to his needs. The chancellor released Mike’s trumpeting angel, lovingly coaxing notes from it. Then, Donald had a brilliant idea! Motioning for Putin to assist him, Donald reached into the Container of Heavenly Pleasure located in the Imperial Sex Closet, and retrieved the Chains of Sin. Coming back over to Pence, Donald chained little Mike to their bedpost.

“How does it feel to be shackled by your sins, Mikey?” teased Donald, stirring the fire of God within his biblical beloved.

Then Donald did something shocking. Calling on his herculean strength, equal to the force of a thousand drug-addicted Mexican field laborers, Donald tore the paneling off of mike’s ventilator, exposing the machine’s delicate internal writing. He tore a black wire in half, careful to maintain the connection. Mike, unable to see what was happening to his poor ventilator, was taken completely by surprise when Donald ran six hundred and sixty-six volts of pleasure through his body. He gave a gasp of elation as his body briefly touched the promised land, but also because his underpowered ventilator momentarily deprived his body of oxygen.

Donald swarmed across his lover’s body like a sex-crazed cockroach, ticking and shocking every inch of Mike’s wrinkled flesh. Pence’s purpling fingers grasped at the chains holding him down, entangling himself further in the Chains of Sin. Vladimir joined in torturing Pence, nibbling collectivitistically at the base of Pence’s Heavenly Father. The smell of Mike’s exertion filled the air, and Donald knew it wouldn't be long before Mike achieved release from earthly desires. Donald adjusted himself and rammed his aryan supremacy piston into Mike. Then, Trump brought both ends of the ventilator wire to Pence’s member (of the church).

The combined force of Putin’s attentions, Trump’s ceaseless thrusts, and the electric thrills tearing Pence’s shepherd's crook back and forth at 60 Hz were simply too much for him to bear. Pence screamed breathlessly, his serpent of temptation spewing so much fluid that it was reminiscent of Noah’s flood itself. Half a minute later, when the rains finally slowed, Trump realized something terrible: Pence’s breathing had stopped!

“Pence, my baby, darling!” he cried, “come back to me!” But it was too late; there was no way to save Mike. Donald had outlawed defibrillators years ago, arguing they would only encourage people to not take care of their cardiovascular health. Now he realized what a fool he was!

Standing dramatically on the corpse of his vice president, friend, and lover, Donald announced majestically to his audience of one:

“I, Donald JBigot Trump, will make amends for this heinous tragedy. I will make this up to the nation, myself, and most of all, to you, my beloved Pence!”

Putin applauded politely.

Donald retrieved his smartphone and made the call he dreamed of making nearly every day since he’d taken office.

“Violent J? Shaggy 2 Dope? Authorize the launch.”

“You mcfreakin got it, boss!” the two voices shouted, “mothefucking password?”

“14-88-Heil-Hitler,” said Trump, closing his eyes and breathing a sigh of relief.

As as the nuclear warheads went off and Donald laid there with his two lovers awaiting certain vaporization, he gazed into the blank eyes of his first love, and the cinder-block-solid abs of his current passion, and Donald, for the first time in his life, felt peace.


	4. Ayn Random XXXDDD

Rand Paul retired after a long day of browsing furaffinity and deviantart from his Elon Musk funded space condo. He never intended to spend his life in space, but one day he pulled himself up by the bootstraps and just kept ascending. Before he knew it, he was caught in orbit.  
As he did every day before going to sleep, he checked his mail.

“OwO, what’s this this,” he said.

His inbox was unusually full. Something to do with those bright flashes he saw across the globe earlier? He clicked one at random: “Presidential Temptation” read its subject line. As he read, Rand felt something stirring deep within him, specifically within his left arm.

“Doki-doki,” he whispered, “Right in the kokoro.”

And as Rand went into cardiac arrest, he became the very last human to die. The end of the human race, caused by a single work of fiction.


End file.
